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by La Belle Argent
Summary: Stiles wanted to belong to someone. Not as their property. As their soulmate.
1. Chapter I

WARNING: CONTAINS REFERENCES TO HARMFUL BEHAVIOR AND SELF-HARM. READ AT YOUR DISCRETION.

"Mr. Stilinski." Stiles looked up, brushing his fringe away from his eyes. Was Mr. Harris really talking to him? "Care to help the class with problem sixteen?" Stiles scoffed under his breath and walked up to the front of the classroom. He picked up a piece of chalk from the tray underneath the board and started writing underneath the number sixteen. When he finally finished writing, he hadn't written the problem and it's solution, but the words 'fuck this,' and walked out of the classroom, leaving his backpack by his desk.

Scott McCall sat in the front of Mr. Harris' first period class. He saw Stiles walk out and sighed to himself. Its their senior year and they couldn't be more distant. They'd been friends since elementary and everyone knew that wherever Scott went, Stiles was sure to follow (and vice-versa). But at the end of their battle with the darach, Stiles became distant and cold. He withdrew from all his friends, even Scott, and no matter how much Scott showed the pain of slowly losing his best friend, Stiles didn't seem to care at all.

Stiles stormed out of the school and got in his beat-up Jeep. He started the car and just drove. Where? He didn't know. He just needed to leave. Once he found a trail in the Beacon Hills nature preserve, he pulled into a clearing the forest and stopped the engine. He rummaged in his backseat for his kit. He finally found the black, aged leather pouch and pulled out a razor from a broken disposable. He slid the right side of his torn-up skinny jeans down until his pale hip, marred by fresh incisions and older scars, was showing completely. He took the the sharp metal and pressed it to the pale skin of his hip and applied an insane amount of pressure. He dragged his hand for nearly two inches before pulling away. The blood collected in bubbles from the wound before staining his pale flesh, red contrasting with white. He inhaled, biting his lip. He enjoyed the pain. Then he realized he ruined it. He began to breath in and out raggedly, tears forming in his dark eyes. He reached back into the leather pouch for the roll of gauze bandage he kept with him at all times. He unrolled it and tore it with his teeth and pressed it to his hip, the wound stinging hot under the scratchy fabric. He then took a bottle of Valium from his pocket and popped three of the pills. He immediately stopped shaking and started regaining control of his breathing. Not because the pills started working, but because of the comfort they provided him.

This is the life of Stiles Stilinski.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles had passed out in his car due to loss of blood. The gauze he had placed on his hip had become completely soaked in blood. He came to slowly, realizing the sun had set and night had fallen. "Shit..." he mumbled under his breath, shifting his position. His hip throbbed viciously when he moved it, causing him to scream in agony. His vision faded to black and his left arm went numb. Using his right arm, he turned the key in the ignition. The noise of the engine turning over startled him. He started pulling out of the clearing and looked in his rearview mirror.

A pair of steel blue eyes in the mirror met his, and his heart stopped. "Stiles. Stop the car." Stiles slammed on the breaks and turned off the car. "Now, listen to me. I'm going to bite you. And you aren't going to run to Scott and cry wolf. You're going to be my beta." Peter Hale was formidable. Not someone you wanted to mess with.

"What the HELL, Peter?! How did you even get in my car?"

Peter shrugged and answered, "Door was unlocked. I let myself in." Stiles scoffed and turned to face him. He winced in pain from his hip. "Stiles, I want you to know something. Believe it or not, I like you. And I want you to be a part of my pack. The very first."

Stiles began to shake. "No, Peter. I won't do it. Not today, not tomorrow." Peter laughed indignantly.

"You'll be begging sooner or later. It's only a matter of time." Peter opened the door and stepped out of the car. Stiles exhaled heavily. He started the car again and finally exited the clearing.

Stiles pulled into his driveway with his headlights off. The last thing he needed was for his father to catch him getting home this late. He climbed the trellis outside his window and went into his room. He walked to the connected bathroom and looked in the mirror. His pale skin stood out against his dark eyes and hair. His hair had grown very long, it nearly covered his eyes. He had to sweep it out of his line of sight. His ears and his lip were pierced, black studs marking the piercings. His eyes, formerly a warm brown, had darkened to an unfeeling blackish-gray. He didn't recognize himself anymore.

"Stiles? You in there?" Sheriff Stilinski knocked on the door. Stiles exited the bathroom and called back a quiet 'yeah' as the doorknob turned. Stiles had seated himself on the bed and was feeling absentmindedly at his aching hip. "Just wanted to check in and see how you're doing."

"I'm fine, Dad. You don't have to do this every night, you know," Stiles answered, his voice wavering slightly. "I haven't done it for nearly a week now."

"You're my son. Am I not allowed to worry?" Stiles' father sat down next to him, resting his head in his hands. "You say you're okay, but, for some odd reason, I don't believe you." He lifted his head and sighed.

"J-just leave me alone please. I need to sleep."

"Stiles, you're shaking. What did you do? Sti- STILES!" Sheriff Stilinski darted towards his son just as his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell forward. He hit the ground with a sickening crunch. Stiles' father gently held up his son and turned him over. Stiles had a giant gash in his forehead which was bleeding profusely. After he was in his father's arms, Sheriff Stilinski noticed his hand underneath Stiles' knees was drenched in blood. He saw a bloodstain on Stiles' right hip. He knew right away what it was from. Silent sobs began to wrack his body as he held his son tightly to him. He'd lost so much weight; he nearly weighed nothing at all. There was barely anything left of his son; the only thing of value he had left in the world.


End file.
